


I Walk a Little Taller, All the Time

by starryeyeddreamers



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: ? ish, Character Study, Fluff, M/M, Recovery, References to Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, he's not dependent so much as idk he enjoys this better, ish, this is absolutely random omg, ugh this is vaguely unhealthy, wandering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-25
Updated: 2013-07-25
Packaged: 2017-12-21 07:12:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/897384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starryeyeddreamers/pseuds/starryeyeddreamers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire has found a new coping mechanism. He finds it exhilarating if a little distracting from sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Walk a Little Taller, All the Time

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Frank Turner's Recovery

He was so tired. No, his battered mind reminded him, the word tired is lazy. He was exhausted, weary, haggard, tuckered out, worn and beat. His eyes seared with the pain of days without sleep. His fingers twitched in his lap as he rode the last train until morning. His yawning was almost constant, he used his grimy hands to try and stifle them but that just earned him motley streaks of oil paint on his nose and cheeks. 

His hair was greasy, hidden under a knit hat that was a gift from a dear friend who knew his showering routines too well. His spare pair of boots had a nasty hole in the toe. His ripped flannel and somehow even more ripped jeans were covered in paint and what looked and smelled like motor oil. He didn't know if the red on his shirt was paint or blood. But the few strangers on this section of the train were either too tired to notice or were just as questionably dressed as him. He didn’t care much.

He had quickly progressed through the many stages of exhaustion since the last time he had slept. He had gotten quite giggly at his friend’s flat a few hours ago, about absolutely nothing any sane person would find funny. And he had continued to giggle. Until he abruptly stopped, bade his goodbyes and promptly walked out, back to wandering the streets of the city.

The wandering had taken the place of the drinking. He met better people this way, he convinced himself. And he actually remembered in the morning. The streets were a lovely place. He saw kittens chasing their mothers down alleys. He saw all kinds of families getting ready for bed, or just starting their day. He encountered 24 hour bakeries, and secret cafes tucked into side streets and basements. He saw little girls fighting to go to school in tutus or their Superman pajamas, not usually on the winning side of the argument. He saw people young and old crying on their front stoops or on fire escapes, having broken up with a boyfriend or having read the obituary of a dear friend. He saw even more laughing with abandon accompanied by whole globs of friends or by themselves and a lucky potted plant. It was exhilarating to see so much life. He might have missed it had his walks been tinged with gin.

The wandering gave way to paintings. His friends all agreed they were his best yet. He himself could not believe how prolific his walks made him. He liked the lighting at twilight absolutely best because it brought out the right tones in everything. It made everyone and everything breathtakingly gorgeous, he would think so uncharacteristically uncynically, as he tried to capture it on canvas. He ran out of blues and yellows quickly. But not before the pink that settles in everyone’s hair and complexion, only shaken out by the brassy yellows of the electric lights that shower the city after dusk.

He loved seeing and sharing these new things, and would drag his friends along to that odd shop that only sells snow globes that he found under a set of stairs in a back alley. He just wished he could get some damn sleep. But his brain would not stop reminding him of all the living that was happening all around him that he was missing by laying his head on that lumpy pillow. So he would shrug his sweatshirt back on and pull back on the same worn shoes and head off in a new direction once he reached the front steps. That’s what landed him on the last train of the night (early morning), because he had not slept for 65 hours and his legs felt like a particularly intricate jello mold.

He had stopped the hysterical giggling hours ago, he just stared now. First at his feet, then at the colors of the ads on the walls, then at his reflection in the opposing window. He winced slightly at that sight. He barely heard the calling of his stop but managed to snap out of it long enough to move his legs in the direction of the exit.

Up the stairs, through the turnstile, up more stairs, breathe in the air, notice the arrival of periwinkle and pink in the horizon, smile slightly. This awareness, even this exhausted variety, was absolutely worth not drinking. He shuffled across the deserted street and traced the familiar path back home. 

The flat was not empty when he returned. A single light shone from the bedroom. He at first considered if he had left it on, but knew that he hadn’t. He didn’t even notice the shoes that were not his size lined up on the mat next to the door. Or the coat hanging on the peg. He just continued shuffling, right into the bedroom, toeing off his shoes as he went. 

The other man’s back was turned when he walked in. He grinned for the benefit of the other man’s shoulder blades as the blond shrugged on a t shirt. 

“Hey.” The man turned, slightly startled to find he was not alone.  
“Hey yourself.”  
“You weren't supposed to be home ‘til tonight.”  
“I caught an earlier flight.” This was returned with a wider grin. “Have you slept at all?” A shake of a weary head was all he got for an answer. He held his arms open and the exhausted wanderer pulled him into a bear hug. The taller man stroked his back soothingly. “S’not healthy.” He muttered against the rough knit hat. He received a grumble for his efforts. “Come to bed.”

The wanderer changed into pajamas that were even more of a sight than his street clothes, joining the equally weary traveler in bed. The traveler pulled the other man into his arms.  
“Too much life to be seen.” The black haired man mumbled. “Can’t sleep.” The blond knew too well of his rambling and painting.  
“Really? Why can you sleep now?” He questioned, watching as the other closed his eyes.  
“What is there to see?” He whispered which would have been incoherent had the blond not been listening intently. “Those are other peoples’ lives, mine is in your arms.”  
“Oh god, you’re the biggest sap.” He pressed a kiss to forehead of the raven haired man as the sap in question grinned sleepily. 

"And you have paint on your lips now."

They both slept peacefully until twilight the following evening.

**Author's Note:**

> PLease critique my absolutely all over the place writing style, thanks :)


End file.
